


(walk with me) to the end of all dreams

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Final Fantasy X AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6043434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The daughter of High Summoner Lavellan sets out on her pilgrimage, and receives an unlikely ally.</p><p>It's a long journey to the ruins of Arlathan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**i.**

The first time their paths cross is on the docks of Llomerryn.

He’s a Maester, and she’s – well, she’s Ellana, backwater island raised, her father’s worn staff held between palms too soft for battle, and seeing the world through eyes too wide to hide her ignorance of it. She’s never seen a town so big, nor so many people in the same place at once, but the one who captures her gaze is _him_ , holding her attention as he steps smoothly through the crowd of onlookers who have gathered to watch Maester Solas greet the daughter of High Summoner Lavellan.

He bows – the formal greeting made lovely by the languid, familiar movements, and his slender hands, cupped just below his ribs, a perfect execution. A clever smile lies curled at the corner of his mouth, a thing of unexpected kindness that echoes in dawn-grey eyes, and she feels her breath catch.

“Summoner Ellana,” he says, inclining his head, a less formal greeting, but his tongue wraps around her name like a prayer.

“Maester Solas,” she manages without a stutter, and something _leaps_ within her when his eyes curve in response.

He asks her about their voyage, and listens attentively when she speaks of what they’ve encountered. And she grows bolder under his gaze, speaking more freely than she should, but delighting in the soft chuckle that escapes him when she remarks on a particularly obnoxious deck hand on their last ship, who’d given her a terrible impression of Orlesians.

“I would like to assure you the general population of Orlais have far better manners,” Solas explains. Then, dropping his voice, “As there is a crowd, I fear I must,” he adds, good humour winking in his eyes, and Ellana has to concentrate so as not to burst out laughing, surprised to find that kind of levity from a Maester.

Then he offers his solemn blessings on her pilgrimage, a courtesy expected of his position, but she feels it in her bones, every word like a promise – “I would assist you,” he says, eyes holding hers. “In any way that I can.”

She walks from the docks with a blush rising in her cheeks and a smile she can’t quite stifle, and feeling the furious flutter of her heart like a bird’s wings behind the cage of her ribs.

* * *

 

**ii.**

When they meet next it’s at the heels of a disastrous operation, a fire stoked by the hubris of mankind, until all that’s left of their conviction is ashes, and more broken bodies than she’s seen in her whole life.

He finds her in one of the tents, her back bent a little further from new burdens, and her eyes a little less wide.

“You look tired,” he remarks, when they are given a moment alone, although Bull lingers in her periphery, ever wary. The tip of his broadsword shoved in the sand, he has his lone eye on the horizon, as though Sin might arise from the sea once again, although the beach is littered with bodies and there is nothing left to destroy but the skeletal remains of whatever machina is still standing.

“It’s the sending,” Ellana says, and resists the urge to rub at her eyes. “I always feel tired, and this was a long one.”

She doesn’t know what she expects – words of wisdom, perhaps. Not a promise that it will get easier, it never does, and he is a Summoner too, and knows that better than anyone.

But she doesn’t expect him to take a seat beside her, close enough for her to touch, but before she can sputter her surprise, he simply leans back against the tent-post, as though he has nowhere else to be. As though he’s not a Maester, and he has time to comfort a single, exhausted Summoner, when there are others in more need of his attention.

“Rest, if you wish,” Solas says, the offer clear. And for one staggering moment she’s too stunned to respond.

Then – hesitantly, because he is still a Maester, and she is still just Ellana – she leans her weight against him. And he’s _warm_ – warmer than her, fingers white-knuckled from gripping her staff and her skin flushed cold from the sea spray and the sinking temperature as evening crawls across the sky. And after hours of dancing, the sand between her toes and her heart in her throat, his solid weight is reminder that he’s still _alive_ , and that he won’t drift away at her touch, like all the souls she’s guided on their final journey today.

Sleep claims her before she’s had the chance to properly consider the sheer and utter impropriety of her actions. And it’s probably for the best that she doesn’t catch the murmurs rising around them, and the curiosity sparked by the sight of them where they sit; two people so different, finding solace in each other amidst the ruins of Sin’s destruction.

* * *

 

**iii.**

They part ways at the Redcliffe temple, and weeks go by before they see each other again.

Their journey across the Hinterlands is uneventful, but after the events that transpired on the Storm Coast, she’s glad of the routine in each day spent on the road, waking at the first blush of sunrise and walking until her feet ache, and retiring by the fire to Varric’s stories. She listens to Cassandra’s prayers in the morning, and Blackwall and Sera’s banter, volleyed back and forth with an ease that leaves a pang in her chest, and a desire for someone to talk to with the same familiarity, if not the same amount of lewd remarks.

She thinks about him, sometimes – catches herself doing it more than she should, attempting to recreate the soothing lilt of his voice from where it’s tucked away in her memories. And she wonders what he’s doing, and if he catches himself thinking about her, at odd moments. But she’s quick to shake off the thought that she’d leave a lasting impression on someone like him, and that he’d spare her any thought beyond hope for her well-being.

She reminds herself of this until she believes it. But then, just beyond the outskirts of the Fallow Mire, her skirts soaked and her hair plastered to her face from the sky’s relentless onslaught, she finds a procession waiting for them – servants of Yevon, from the temple of Val Royeaux by their attire.

And at their front stands Solas, seemingly unmindful of the weather, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe and a determined expression knitting his brows together. “Lady Lavellan,” he says, a formality so at odds with what she remembers, and for a moment she fears the worst – news of Sin after weeks of nothing. But not Val Royeaux, surely? Too heavily guarded, but still–

“I would ask to become your guardian,” he tells her, before her thoughts can run away with her completely, and his expression is so _serious_ it threatens to lure a tumble of laughter from her chest. Because here she is, drenched to the bone and with her rag-tag group of guardians at her back, and he’s bowing before her, pledging his assistance like he’d promised that day at the docks, and looking at her like she’s the only thing worth seeing in all of Thedas.

And if she’d been asked weeks ago what she’d say – how she’d respond to a Maester of Yevon bending at the knee and asking to join her, to pledge himself to her – she would have had a damn good laugh, but now all she can focus on is the furious stutter of her heart, and the terrible joy rising in her chest, escaping her lips with breathless reverence–

“I’d be honoured to accept.”

* * *

 

**iv.**

They object, at first. The others.

“A _Maester_?” Varric murmurs to Cassandra, dubiousness dripping from every word, and she _shushes_ him with a sharp look, unwilling to speak ill of a high-standing servant of Yevon.

“It is an – _odd_ request from such a man, I’ll grant you,” she says at length. “But he is well within his rights to offer his assistance. Sin does not discriminate between Maester and commoner. And if he wishes to lay down his life for Thedas…”

Varric snorts. “Still. You’d figure a Maester would prefer the cushy temple-life to the road.”

The former Seeker offers a lingering look in Ellana’s direction. “Perhaps he was inspired.”

“By what, the promise of certain death?”

Cassandra says nothing, but spares another glance towards their Summoner, and the smile that seems to have taken up permanent residence on her face.

“No,” she says then, quietly. “Something rather different, I suspect.”

* * *

 

**v.**

He makes her laugh.

She has not laughed properly in years – not like this, the mirth building from deep in her stomach, until it spills from her lips in peals that carry, and turns the heads of each and every one of her guardians. Bull only shakes his head, but hides a smile of his own, and Varric mutters something under his breath – a nickname he won’t share openly, to spare Cassandra’s Yevon-worshipping sensibilities.  _Chuckles._

It’s meant ironically, Ellana knows, but can’t help but find it oddly fitting – however severe the pull of his brow, and however grim his remarks, there’s a humour lurking beneath it all that speaks of a past where his smiles were freer, easier things. And it makes her wonder what made him like this, and what it was that put the shadows behind his eyes that he can’t always conceal.

But they all have their burdens to carry, and so she allows him his secrets. There’s a long journey ahead of them still, what might well be her last, and she’ll take whatever small joys she can find.

Like the way the corner of his mouth quirks, before stretching into a full-blown smile, lighting up his features in a way that make her forget, if only momentarily, who they are and where they are going, and what awaits them at the end of their journey.

* * *

 

**vi.**

It does not take long for rumours to spread, about Summoner Ellana and her guardian Maester.

_A bond that might defeat Sin_ , the whispers say, _like High Summoner Ameridan and his wife before them. Perhaps it’s fate?_

They give the people hope – flowers are strewn in their path, blessing the steps of her pilgrimage, and prayers sung in their wake, that Yevon will see them safely to the ruins of Arlathan. And she _feels_ it, the hope; remembers every smile on every face, but the sadness that had once accompanied the thought of her duty is not so great a burden these days, walking beside him, their hands bumping, and with his quiet conversation to keep her company. He knows much, languages long forgotten, and history – stories that are not as fanciful as Varric’s, but that captivate her all the same, spoken in his low, lovely voice.

She thinks about it, awake at night in her bedroll and listening to the others sleep – Bull’s familiar snores, and Sera talking under her breath. She turns the events of the day over in her mind, and their conversations, laden now with more than just polite interest, at least on her part. And she thinks about her small touches to his arm in passing, and wonders idly what the hell she is doing, and why this should strike her as the appropriate time and place to have a crisis of heart, like a girl fresh into her adolescence.

But then she remembers his looks, offered from across the campfire, and the weight of his gaze when he thinks she doesn’t notice. And she falls asleep smiling, feeling like a girl ten years younger, uncaring of time and place, because if death awaits her in Arlathan, let her have this now.

_Yevon, please let her have this._

* * *

 

**vii.**

They worry.

They don’t say it to her face, but she can tell from their expressions – Cassandra’s brow, heavy with thoughts she’s loath to share, and Varric’s unusually pensive looks. Bull’s silence, and Sera’s jokes, cutting a little deeper than normal, and Blackwall’s weary sigh that reminds Ellana a little too much of her late father.

“Something not right about that guy,” she hears Varric say one night, and she keeps her breaths soft and even, feigning sleep. With her back turned, she can’t see the look on his face, but she can guess it well enough. Solas is out scouting the perimeter with Bull, and she feels a pang of sudden resentment, that they’d jump at the opportunity to discuss one of their companions behind his back.

“I agree.” It’s Cassandra who speaks now, her voice low. “I do not know what it is, but there is a feeling of…wrongness about him. I do not believe he is telling us everything.”

Sera scoffs. “’Course he isn’t. Skeevy bastard.”

“But she’s happy,” Blackwall speaks up then, quietly, and Ellana has to concentrate so as not to let slip her surprise, alerting them all to the fact that she’s wide awake. “She’s smiling. Isn’t that what’s important?”

A silence follows at the heels of his words, and no one speaks. Then – “I would see her happy,” Cassandra says. “I just wish – but perhaps we are letting our personal feelings cloud our judgement. He has done nothing to warrant our suspicions.”

“Other than be skeevy,” Sera mutters under her breath.

“Hero’s got a point, though,” Varric sighs. “And hell, I’m not gonna tell her who to be smitten with. She’s been groomed for this business since her old man defeated Sin. Let her have a crush if it makes waking up in the morning easier.” A snort, then, “Yevon knows we could all use something like that.”

“You do not think–” Cassandra says then, but stops.

“What?” Sera asks.

A sigh, expelled with terrible softness. “You do not think she would change her mind? That she would – quit.”

There’s a pause. Then, “You hoping she will?” Varric asks, but by the tone of his voice it’s not so much a question as it is an observation, and an offer of understanding sitting deep in the words.

Cassandra is quiet for a long moment, so long that Ellana wonders if she will answer at all, but then, and with a voice softer than she’s ever heard her speak – “We are all allowed our share of hope in this world,” she says. “That does not make our desires any less selfish.”

No one says anything after that, and the silence that descends is a terrible thing, pooling in the wake of their words and making Ellana’s fingers fist in her bedding, although she doesn’t know who she’s truly angry with. Herself, perhaps more than anyone else. _Selfish._ Is that what she is now?

And Cassandra’s words stay with her into the early hours of the morning, keeping her company long after the others have retired to bed.

* * *

 

**viii.**

She confronts him later, in a secluded spot halfway through the Crestwood, a spring at their backs, the water dappled with shadows, and an odd quiet all around them. Peace, for however long it lasts. It’s a rare commodity these days.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Solas doesn’t seem surprised by the question – in fact, by his grim expression, he’s been waiting for it.

“Solas?” Ellana asks. Her mouth feels dry, and she tucks her hands into the folds of her skirt to keep them from shaking.

He draws a breath, and, “Yes,” he says, turning to look at her, and what she finds in his eyes makes her breath hitch.

Ellana swallows, and steels herself for the truth. “Will you tell me?” she asks then, lifting her chin. A hundred thoughts is running through her head as to what it might be, the reason behind the sorrow she can see so plainly now, etched into his every feature.

Touching his fingertips to her temple, Solas brushes a curl away from her face; winds it tenderly around his knuckles as he buries his hand in her hair, to cradle the back of her neck. And she’s barely breathing, mouth parted slightly with an anticipation she’s never before felt, drumming like a song in her veins. And when he looks at her now she doesn’t see the pity she finds on the faces of everyone else – doesn’t see that desperate hope, and the fear that she won’t succeed. It’s only desire she finds now, hot and earnest, and when he presses his brow to hers, she feels her knees buckle beneath her, the legs that have carried her for so long and through so much yielding under the weight of feeling his touch has awoken within her.

“Yes,” he says, and kisses her soundly, hands fisting in her hair, and she feels how they’re shaking – worse than her own, curling around the fabric of his robes, knuckles white with a desperation that’s new and terrifying and utterly, wonderfully _exciting_.

Yevon let her have this, Yevon let her have _him_ , all of him, the brightness of his soul to light her path and the whole of his body pressed flushed against her. She’s asked for nothing her whole life, not a single, selfish thing, but she’ll beg for him if she has to, and she breathes her prayers in wordless gasps against his throat as he lays her back in the grass.

And in that moment she doesn’t care what it is, the secret he carries that seems to weigh even heavier than her own burdens. Because she knows the prayers of the people of Thedas; she’s seen their offerings and heard their pleas for her success, their honouring of her heritage, but she’s never known a worship like this, with his hands on her skin and his mouth igniting a path of fire in the wake of his touches. It’s almost blasphemy, this reverence he shows her, this Maester with his robes undone and his hair loose around her fingers, but she takes it all, and in that moment, knows only him and how he feels against her; buried within her.

And when they life in the afterglow, and she imprints the memory of his bared body in her mind, she makes a decision that surprises her, with the force of its conviction. She’ll be no passive sacrifice – no herald of peace in her gentle death, accepting her fate with grace. Sin will take her screaming – Sin will take her _living_ , laughing and shouting, because for the first time in her life, she feels it.

And she’ll grip the feeling with both hands until her very last breath.

* * *

 

**ix.**

“Hey,” Bull mutters, nudging Varric with the toe of his boot, and nodding towards the two shapes emerging from the trees on the far edge of the camp. “Looks like someone got lucky.” A snort, then, “Should probably rough him up a bit for that.”

Looking up from his book, Varric lifts his eyes in the direction of Bull’s nod, heart sinking at the sight of familiar, freckled cheeks dusted with a tell-tale blush, and russet hair a wild mess about her shoulders. A wilder mess than usual, that is, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess why.

And at her side walks the Maester, an alleged picture of piousness and propriety, and holding back a smile that, on the face of any other Maester in Varric’s acquaintance, would have made him laugh himself into a heart attack.

But as it is he recognizes what lies beneath the smile – the honest sentiment that kills any hope he might have harboured, that whatever blossoming between them was nothing more than a crush.

_Well…shit._

And it’s the worst kind of fate – he knows this, because he’s written enough tragedies in his life; has lived through twice as many himself – giving your heart to a dead woman walking.

“I don’t know if ‘lucky’ is the word you’re looking for, Tiny.”

* * *

 

**x.**

It’s on the summit just beyond The Hundred Pillars, that he finally tells her the truth.

He brings her out to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ruins, her hand cradled in his palm and her heart light after their defeat of the mountain’s guardian – one of many obstacles that will mark their path to Arlathan’s heart, but she feels almost giddy with their victory, and the end of their journey, so close she can scarcely believe it.

Then he turns her towards him, and the expression on his face has her heart dropping into her stomach, but she rights her back and prepares herself for the truth she knows is coming, now at long last.

But whatever she’d expected, nothing could have prepared her for what he tells her, calmly and evenly – his reasons for singling her out, amidst all the Summoners in Thedas who’d set out on their pilgrimages. Why he’d pledged himself to join her, to protect her and make sure she would reach her final destination – why he would ensure _she_ would be the one to challenge Sin –

“The circle of death is what sustains Thedas,” Solas explains gravely. “Sin is what sustains us all, and I–” But he doesn’t finish, as though at a loss for words. The first time she’s seen him struggle, and at any other time she would have found the sight endearing.

But after what he’s told her – what he’s admitted with a straight face, a truth more terrible than any her imagination could have ever hoped to conjure–

“You wanted to become Sin.” Her voice doesn’t sound like her own, and she can hardly believe she’s speaking the words.

Solas’ expression softens. “At first,” he confirms. “Now–”

“No,” she says, taking a step back. “No, don’t – don’t _say_ anything else. Just – just don’t–”

“Now I cannot bear to lose you,” Solas says, taking a step towards her, but he doesn’t reach out to touch her, although it’s clear he wants to – she spots the restless twitch of his fingers, the agony on his face. “And there is no less truth in that, than what I have told you of my initial reasons for joining you.”

She’s shaking her head, although she’s not sure exactly what she’s disagreeing to. “You – all this time – and when we–”

“Ellana–”

“I’m giving my life to _defeat_ Sin! And now you’re telling me you want it all to continue – that _you_ want to –” She can hardly get the words out – can barely summon the strength to look for them, let alone force them past the growing lump in her throat.

“There is no defeating Sin,” Solas tells her. “Death is the very essence of this world.” His hands clench then. “Although, being with you–”

“Please stop,” she croaks. “Please don’t remind me. I trusted you. I–” _I loved you_ is what she doesn’t say, what she can’t make herself say, but it’s what he hears, regardless. That much is clear from the grief that passes across his face, a near unbearable sight.

“I cannot take it back,” he tells her. “But I could not go on…I could not let you do this, unaware.”

A laugh tears from her, a shrill, mirthless cry of disbelief. “Why?” she demands. “It would have all gone according to plan. If what you’re telling me is true, if – if I have to choose, I–” She shakes her head, but she feels the truth where it comes to settle, a stone’s weight behind her ribs. “I would have done it, if you’d accepted. I would have picked you. It would have _killed_ me, but I would have had you at my side, until the end. And _you_ –”

“I would have accepted,” Solas tells her, voice little more than a rasp. “And not for the reasons I had to begin with, but because–”

“ _No_ ,” she cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear it, I – can’t.” She can barely look at him, and the hurt he doesn’t even bother to hide, an expression so vivid she feels every ounce of it herself.

And perhaps that is why it’s so difficult to grasp – easier, if he’d simply used her and been done with it. Easier if he hadn’t cared.

“Please just go,” she tells him then, voice breaking now that she can no longer hold back her tears.

Solas looks ready to protest. “Ellana–”

“ _Go_!”

He takes the word like a physical blow, flinching at the force of her voice, and the anger spat with the order. At his back, the ruins of Arlathan lie, and she can see the myriad of pyreflies rising towards the dusk-lit sky, eerily beautiful with their gossamer tails, and their soft, mournful song.

“As you wish,” he tells her then, quietly, before he steps away – gives her a wide berth, before walking past her. And she doesn’t turn to see him go. As it is, it’s taking all her strength just to keep standing.

The first sob tears free when she can no longer hear his footsteps – a violent, racking thing that makes her chest constrict painfully. And then she’s sinking to her knees, fingers clawing at the dirt as she heaves from the sheer force of her grief, offering her lament to the city of the dead, her back bent completely now under her burdens and her losses, a mockery of prayer.

And although she’s faced the truth of her death for years – has known it as fact since before she’d started on her pilgrimage, wide-eyed and naive in her conviction – the thought of it now, facing Sin without him, with the knowledge that he’d have exploited her sacrifice for his own gain…

She doesn’t know how long she kneels there, curled in on herself, but then there’s a weight on her back, a large, familiar hand spanning the width of her shoulder blades, and she knows whose it is even before he speaks.

“Say the word, Boss,” Bull rumbles. “I’ll catch him before he gets to the foot of the mountain – leave his corpse for the crows to peck clean.”

Her heart swells – a small, desperate flutter, and she’s reminded of the time she was seven and she’d fallen and scabbed her knee, and he’d held her through her tears and assured her the bigger the scar, the better.

And there are those who would help her, still – who would rather see her live, but who would follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked. People who have followed her this far, and who did so of their love for her, not for any other reason.

“No,” Ellana rasps, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, though her tears have all dried up. “No more death.” Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, and her chest like she’s broken all her ribs. It’s hard to breathe past the pain. “There’ll be no more death. I’ll make sure of it.”

Bull says nothing, but helps her up when she tries to stand, her knees trembling, and when he walks her back to camp Ellana lifts her chin, defiance burning in place of her shame, her disbelief.

She’ll still go down screaming – Sin will take her, defiant to the last, and she’ll give all she has left of herself, all that he didn’t take, to make sure it all ends with her.

* * *

 

**xi.**

The last leg of their journey is the hardest – the final stretch of the pilgrimage she’s walked for months, and her back feels bent enough to break; her feet too heavy to lift, but she walks, still, each and every step with her chin held high, her tears at bay.

At the heart of Arlathan’s skeletal metropolis, Ameridan greets them, hard of brow and marked by his long years as unsent, sustained in an endless circle of sacrifice and death, welcoming Summoners to follow in his footsteps. To someone like him, Ellana knows she is just one face among many, but he remarks upon her name, and she tells him of the legacy her father left her – named after his late wife, Telana the Dreamer, and for a moment there’s a flicker of something other than death in his old eyes.

She stands before him, her guardians at her back, and something tells her he knows there is one missing, from the way his gaze spans the distance between them, as though looking straight through to her soul.

Something passes between them – a shared sense of loss so profound she feels suddenly robbed of all coherent thought. And she thinks of the stories, Ameridan and Telana, paving the way for all Summoners and their guardians. The very first sacrifice.

He speaks then – the same things Solas had told her, of the familial bonds to ensure the final summoning be strong enough to defeat Sin. Bonds between siblings, between mother and child. Between close friends.

_Between lovers._

And she doesn’t doubt for a second that the strongest bond in her heart was the one she’d severed.

Ameridan looks between her guardians – Cassandra’s grave acceptance, and Varric’s softly uttered curse. Sera’s unusually serious expression, and Blackwall, a silent sentinel at her back.

And Bull, who meets Ellana’s look with a nod. Bull, who’d seen her through her worst years, and borne the brunt of her tantrums, her over-wrought heart.

And it’s the same heart that breaks all over again, a thousand little pieces, because she knows, even before Ameridan asks,

“Who will you choose?”

* * *

 

**xii.**

After it’s done, she orders the others to leave.

Ignoring their rising protests, she tells them to go back, that their work is done, and that the last few steps are hers to walk, alone.  _No more death but her own._ After Bull’s sacrifice, she can’t bear to lose another.

But, “No,” Cassandra says firmly, arms crossed with a finality that rings like a death knell.

Surprisingly enough, what swells in her chest isn’t grief, but anger. “Cassandra–”

“Tell me to go however many times you please,” Cassandra cuts her off. “It will not change my mind.”

“Sorry, Dimples,” Varric says. “Not going anywhere.”

Sera snorts. “As if we would.”

“Give us some credit,” Blackwall laughs, a humourless chuckle, but what she feels most keenly is the yawning absence of Bull’s voice, even though she _feels_ him still, at the back of her mind, ready to be called.

They won’t be persuaded, not by her tears, or her shouts. Not by her insults; lies too transparent to convince anyone with ears, and Sera only pats her on the back and tells her with a soft snort that she’s a shit liar.

And so they follow her as she walks the length of the battlefield, a wide-open stretch of endless plains, barren of life. In the distance the sky stretches, blood-red clouds heralding what will be her last sunrise, if she lives that long.  _A fitting place to end a decade’s reign of death,_ Ellana thinks _,_ and forces herself to believe her own words, even as her companions fall around her.

Sera is the first to go down – reckless even in this, arrows aimed with surety, and with ‘fucking Sin-shite _bastard’_ shouted on her dying breath. Blackwall follows suit shortly after, blade raised high, and cleaving a path through the throng of sinspawn before he’s overwhelmed. Cassandra walks, straight-backed and shield raised at Ellana’s front, a living barricade, and a prayer on her breath it takes a killing blow to silence.

And Varric…Varric is the last. Varric walks with her, and Varric talks, filling the silence left by their friends, and tells her all the stories she’s heard before, of his Summoner before her – Hawke, larger than life, who tried to take Sin down with her bare hands. He talks until his voice is hoarse, and tells her, with a wistfulness that almost breaks her – “Dimples, shit, but the stories I would have told about _you_.”

And then it’s quiet, and she’s all alone, standing in the midst of a battlefield riddled with sinspawn and her fallen friends, her father’s staff held between slack fingers, and she knows what she must do – they’d given her a fighting chance, and it’s her turn now, to finish it. She won’t squander their sacrifices with her indecision.

Sin sits perched before her, a titan among beasts, watching her coolly. And she wonders at the soul who’d spawned it. Which of his guardians had her father chosen, to bear the true burden of Sin’s existence? Is there a sliver of them left still, existing somewhere within that monstrous shape?

She wonders idly, what will remain of Bull, when it’s done.

And suddenly she can’t move – can’t lift her staff to begin the summoning, paralysed with the thought of what her choices have brought her; what they will still bring, long after her death. The Calm, and then what? Another Sin – _Bull_ – and someone else to walk the path she’d walked, to face him down. Another loved one sacrificed. A never-ending spiral of death.

A hand on her shoulder – it’s so sudden she jolts, but then he’s there, a solid warmth at her back, and she’s too stunned to speak; too stunned to manage so much as his name.

“Finish it,” Solas says, tucking the words against her ear. “This will not end with you, but it will end someday. Your actions will give someone else the chance to break the cycle.”

She looks at Sin, eerily quiet before her. She wonders how insignificant it thinks her, so small in comparison. Or does it sense the power she carries within her – the sacrifice offered out of love; the same kind of love that once created it?

Does it wait for her to put it out of its misery?

“It will end someday?” she asks, and doesn’t know who she’s directing the question towards, but Sin is silent, and behind her, Solas nods.

“You must believe it will, you of all people.” A pause, before he adds, “You taught me more of living than a lifetime in this world. There is no greater truth I can offer.” Then, and she feels his rueful smile, curling along the words, “Well. There is one, but you know it already.”  _I love you._

The words come to settle in her chest, and she swallows thickly, tears pressing at her eyes now, for an entirely different reason than her ever-piling losses.

“Okay,” she breathes, her grip tightening around the haft of her staff. And, “Help me?” she asks, but she already knows the answer; feels it in the way his arms come to wrap around her. And he holds her up – bears her weight as she pours her last reserves into her very last summoning, feeling it leech away her strength even before she’s reached within herself, to call for aid one last time. It’s a power so savage it rips through her, a destructive force beyond reckoning, and on the edge of her hearing, a delighted, familiar laugh, and – _Horns up!_

Solas holds her as her knees give out – cradles her against him as her strength leaves her, until she can no longer keep up with the battle, with Bull’s aeon or with Sin, and the clash of brute force that rocks the ground beneath them.

Instead she looks at Solas, kneeling above her. “You came back,” she murmurs. She tries to lift her hand to touch his face, but she can’t move her arms.

He nods once, the gesture almost too soft, for the battle raging around them. And he doesn’t say anything – there are no excuses, no apologies, but she finds she doesn’t need them. There’s only one thing she needs, now.

And so – “Stay?” she asks.

Solas smiles – eyes curving and the corner of his mouth lifting up, ever so slightly. And though her body is broken, in that moment, her heart mends. “You have my word, whatever that means to you now.”

She wants to tell him it means everything, but she can’t locate her voice to speak. But by his expression, the weight of his gaze focused solely on her, Ellana doubts there’s any uncertainty in his heart as to the truth of her forgiveness.

Then ground beneath them gives away, cracks down the middle like a broken plate, and it’ll take them both down with it, but Solas doesn’t budge. Instead he only tightens his arms around her, a gentleness in the gesture that allows her eyes to slip closed, and when the darkness swallows them up she lifts her chin to the skies – one last act of defiance that takes every last bit of her strength.

_Horns up._

* * *

 

**xiii.**

Something is making her lungs hurt – a pain that stings like nothing she’s ever felt before, and she tries to breathe, but instead only succeeds in pulling seawater into her lungs. And her surprise is almost greater than her pain, wedging like a knife between her ribs.

It takes her a moment to realize she’s submerged underwater.

Panic settles – clamps like a vice around her windpipe, and then she’s trashing, arms flailing, desperate to reach the surface but it’s too dark to see anything, and there are pyreflies everywhere, dancing around her, and _is this how Summoners die_ , she wonders idly, and a twinge hysterically.

“It’s okay,” a voice says then, speaking directly into her ear, and she jerks, eyes searching for the speaker, but finding nothing but the blackness of the watery depths.

A shape materializes before her then, and she knows it – the pale, shaggy hair and the over-large hat. The patchwork clothing.

She knows _him,_ Ellana realizes.

“I helped,” the fayth says, voice kind. Compassionate. “I asked them, and they said it was okay. They’ll keep dreaming, a little longer.”

She’s shaking her head – it’s not making any sense. She should be dead. Sin – did she succeed? And she can barely think past the pain of holding her breath, and–

“You can breathe,” the fayth says – _Cole_ , the name comes to her between the ripples of her confusion, a small trickle of warmth – and Ellana heaves a breath, and is surprised when she finds it’s true.

“Where am I?” she asks, and it’s awkward speaking the words underwater, but she manages somehow. _Am I dreaming?_

“ _You_ aren’t,” Cole says, as though she’d spoken the words out loud. “They are.”

She doesn’t ask – every question she has seems to elude her, slipping between her fingers when she grasps for them, but, “Where am I?” she tries again.

The fayth tilts his head, hat slightly askew, and – “Sand between his toes, he hasn’t felt like this in years, free, unburdened. _Alive._ If only she were here, he’d walk with her again, to the ends of the earth and back. He promised he would stay. He gave his word.”

A thought grabs her – spurs her into moving, kicking her arms and legs as she scrambles for the surface she can’t yet see, the water an all-encompassing darkness pressing down from above. Her lungs are hurting in truth now, and she can feel the water in her nose; stinging her eyes. The fayth is nowhere to be seen, and she can’t hear anything but the frantic hammering of her own heart, like a headache pushing against her skull.

Then she breaks the surface of the water, gasping for air, and she finds it – filling her lungs, and it’s at once relief and blinding agony, and she can’t see with her own hair obscuring her vision, plastered to her face as she threads water with aching legs.

Wiping her sopping curls from her eyes, the sight that greets her is one that steals her new-found breath – a sandy beach, sprawling alongside water so blue it beggars belief, and a sky that seems to go on forever stretching above her head.

Making her way towards the beach, she’s stumbling against the shore, skirts heavy with water and legs trembling beneath her own weight. But the fayth’s words are still ringing in her head – _he promised he would stay. He gave his word._

Then, at the far end of the beach, beyond which a city rises into the sky – towering spires cutting into the clouds, a city out of legend, not dead now but alive and thriving – she sees him. No Maester’s robes but a commoner’s clothes, and his feet bare in the sand, wading through the shallow water a stone’s toss from where she’s standing.

And at his back, four familiar shapes, all of them standing, and none of them broken. Only four, but it is four more than she’d had two heartbeats ago, and she won’t insult the memory of the fifth with her grief now.

She hasn’t moved – hasn’t budged so much as an inch since she’d made it out of the water, heels buried in the soft sand at the sight of them – but something makes him turn, to look towards her where she’s standing, once again drenched to the bone but _laughing_ now, alight with a happiness she can’t stifle; a disbelieving joy that pours from her mouth in the sound of his name.

Solas takes a step towards her – one hesitant, stumbling step, as though not sure if what he’s seeing is true, but Ellana finds she doesn’t care if it isn’t. If it really is just a dream then let them dream a little longer, whoever allowed them to have this, so long that they keep dreaming long enough for her to reach him.

A heartbeat passes. Overhead, a seagull cries, a startling, _living_ sound.

Then, a smile breaking out across his face, wiping once-grave features clean of sorrow, and she’s running before her name has made it all the way off his tongue.


	2. and I will go where you go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh...I ended up writing more for this.

**i.**

His stay in Llomerryn thus far has been little more than endless meetings and overseeing the temple attendants do jobs they could manage in their sleep – most of them fretting so much at having a Maester nearby, Solas half suspects they’d be more productive if he kept his distance.

It’s been a tedious affair, but there are some pleasures to be derived from his visit. The view from his rooms is nothing short of breathtaking – a crystalline coast, stretching beyond the sprawling town of red-tiled rooftops and markets, and a thick haze of humidity lies draped over the island like a veil, buzzing with heat. His chambers provide a much needed relief from the stifling climate, spheres suffused with temple-magic ensuring the tiles stay cool beneath his feet, although he eyes the horizon with a wistfulness that surprises him. It’s been ages since he last walked on the beach.

“Maester Solas?”

Lifting his eyes to the priestess in the doorway, he finds himself surprised – so caught up in his own reminiscing, he hadn’t heard her approach. “Yes?”

“You wished for me to inform you of Lady Lavellan’s arrival,” she says, and he feels his interest pique, sandy beaches quite forgotten. “The _SS Wycome_  has just been spotted approaching the south wharf."

“Thank you.”

A prayer to Yevon is offered, expertly and with a priestess’ sure sufficiency, and she doesn’t linger. And if she harbours any questions about his particular interest in the Lady Lavellan – if she suspects it the very reason he’d graced the Llomerryn temple with his visit in the first place – Solas knows she’ll be wise enough to keep them to herself.

The daughter of High Summoner Lavellan, Lady Ellana’s reputation precedes her with quite a few weeks, and he’s there on the docks when her party disembarks – an unconventional group of guardians, certainly, if rumours are to be believed. A dwarven chronicler, a former Seeker, an elven pickpocket, a Tal-Vashoth, and a disgraced Warden.

And their Summoner, hair as red as the sunset at her back, and cheeks spattered with freckles darkened by their long voyage. He’d been correct in guessing that the temple of Llomerryn would be the first logical step on her pilgrimage.

However, upon getting a good look at her, her too-bright eyes and wide open expression, a seed of doubt plants itself in his mind. She’s not what he’d expected – High Summoner Lavellan had been tall, high of brow and with a sturdy stature, and well-versed in more than just magic of the white arts. In comparison, his daughter is a slender-limbed thing, looking more a doe in a hunter’s woods than a hunter herself. And he has seen stronger Summoners fail their pilgrimages; Summoners vastly more prepared for what they are facing, than this young woman not even past her third decade.

_And yet._ “Summoner Ellana,” he greets, and despite himself, finds a smile curving at the honest awe that stretches across her face. It’s clear that, however familiar with carrying her father’s legacy and name, she hadn’t expected such a welcome.

And she’s...different, yes, but there’s more behind her wide-eyed expression and her poorly masked humour, and he finds himself intrigued, so much so that he ignores his small doubts, and offers his assistance anyway.

Strange, the feeling in his chest, as he catches her ducking her head to hide a smile. Like her, he doesn’t know quite what to make of it.

He watches her depart, a small procession following at her back, of well-wishers and curious passers-by, and her guardians trailing in her wake, ever watchful. And he sees the hope on their faces – High Summoner Lavellan’s daughter, the herald of a new Calm. The one they’ve been waiting for.

But he doesn’t feel hope – not in that capacity, anyhow. No, what he feels is something else, a surer thing, coming to rest at the bottom of his ribcage.

She might just be exactly what he needs.

* * *

 

**ii.**

When they meet next, it’s under less than ideal circumstances.

He’s there on the Storm Coast when the operation goes south, watching from the cliffs as Sin tears the machina to pieces; the joint efforts of the Crusaders and the Dalish barely putting a dent in its armour. He’s there to witness the bodies pile up on the shore, tangling in the sea-weed, the sight a grotesque testament to the creature’s terrible strength. Foolish, for thinking they ever stood a chance.

And he’s there when Ellana performs the sending, stepping out amidst the chaos of injured and dead, of scattered machina and sinspawn, slender shoulders squared with a strength that is surprising. But it’s not a new thing, Solas sees now, and more fool him for not spotting it sooner – for mistaking her demure nature as weakness.

She lifts her eyes to the sky, curls bleeding dark from the relentless rain, and it’s – _captivating_ , the sight of her, skirts and sleeves flaring with her dance, and her feet bare in the sand. Her staff cleaves through the air and the rain, a softly singing tune, and the pyreflies follow its movements as though mesmerized, seeming to cling to her; one last, desperate plea before she guides them on.

She dances for hours, long after they’ve dragged the bodies beyond the shore, and long after those offering their assistance have retired to their tents, to get out from the rain. A Summoner’s job is never done, and she dances until she can no longer keep herself upright – and then the Tal-Vashoth is there, to carry her back to the tents.

Solas remains on the cliffs for a short time before he leaves to seek her out – to offer a small measure of comfort, and he’s surprised when she doesn’t hesitate. Anyone else would have declined, and perhaps it’s her exhaustion making her decisions for her, but he finds himself pleased when she settles against him, resting her head against his shoulder. Her hair is drying, curls wilder than usual, and he smells the sea on her skin, fresh and sharp. And when she sags against him the weight of her relief is such an honest thing, it’s suddenly hard for him to concentrate on anything else.

He knows they’re being watched, some more evident than others in their curiosity, but he pays them no mind, and no one approaches – unwilling to interrupt, with a Maester present. He doubts they would have showed her the same courtesy if she’d been alone, and feels an unexpected flicker of satisfaction, and something that might be protectiveness.

Of course, he cannot keep them at bay forever.

“Maester Solas.”

The Commander of the Crusaders is in the tent’s opening, his expression marked with equal parts exhaustion as determination. The severe downturn of his mouth tugs at the scar above his lip, and it’s clear he’s not there of his own volition, but likely because necessity demands it. “I have been sent to call on Lady Lavellan.” He offers a glance to where she sits, sound asleep. “I hate to disturb her, but with the number of wounded–”

“Let her rest,” Solas interrupts, and is careful as he slips out from beneath her weight, laying her gently down on the cot. “I will see to the wounded.”

If he’s surprised by the offer, the Commander doesn’t show it, only gives a brief nod of acceptance. “It would be much appreciated.” A small smile tugs briefly at his mouth. “And I suspect it will give the men something to talk about. Most of them have never met a Maester, let alone seen one get his hands dirty.”

“’The healer has the bloodiest hands’,” Solas recites, with a rueful smile of his own. “Or so the saying goes.”

“Right you are, Your Grace. I’ll take you to them.” Stepping out of the way, Commander Cullen allows him to pass. The rain has relented to a soft drizzle, and the smell of wet earth hits his nose, one far more pleasant than the acrid tang of death that had permeated the coast just hours before. But it’s there still – he can sense it, clinging to the earth; the trees and the rocks.

Before he leaves, he catches one last glimpse of Ellana within the tent, curled on the cot. Her hair lies, an endearing tumult around her face, and it’s suddenly difficult tearing his eyes away from the sight.

And as he sets to climbing the steep hill, the Commander at his back, and the trail of curious gazes who’d seen him exit the Lady Summoner’s tent, Solas finds he’s beginning to understand the strange pull Ellana has on the people around her – that unquenchable spark of her spirit that compels them to follow, and to believe her capable of victory, when Sin should rightly have driven all hope from their hearts a long time ago.

* * *

 

**iii.**

His decision to join them is a plan that’s been long in the making, and he’s prepared himself thoroughly; has rehearsed a convincing speech, if necessary, about why a Maester should want to offer himself to the service of a Summoner on her pilgrimage.

But, “I’d be honoured to accept,” Ellana says, just after he’s issued his proposal, soft laugher winking in her eyes behind the wet fall of her hair, and he’s just barely quick enough to school his expression from revealing his surprise. For some reason, he’d expected some level of opposition – an objection at the very least, however half-hearted, to his being a Maester. But she offers none of the sort as she welcomes him into her small group, with an ease that makes him feel a twinge foolish for all his preparation.

Of course, that’s not to say they all harbour the same excitement – he can feel the wary eyes of her guardians on him, as they walk together through the rain and towards the inn sitting on the very edge of the mire. The dwarf mutters something he doesn’t catch, to the one Solas recognizes as Seeker Pentaghast, or – former Seeker, as is more likely, with her current occupation.

Putting them out of his mind, Solas turns his attention instead to Ellana. “You are cold,” he observes as they enter the inn’s foyer, watching her wring water from her hair. Her teeth are chattering, but she’s making an admirable attempt at clenching her jaw hard enough to hide it.

“It’s just a little rain,” she says, wiping the moisture from her brow. Her eyes aren’t quite as wide as he remembers, but then, it’s been a long journey from Llomerryn.

“I will have them draw you a bath,” he says, and has to hide his smile at the panic that shoots across her face.

“Oh, no that’s– Maester Solas–!” But he’s already walking towards the innkeeper, one of the Dalish by his _vallaslin_ , eyes widening with surprise at finding a Maester of Yevon at the furthermost edge of the Fallow Mire. But he’s quick to respond to his request, and then someone is scurrying for a tub.

When he turns back it’s to find Ellana’s cheeks flushed with something quite different than the rain, but there’s a smile there too, visibly delighted. “You didn’t have to do that – he looks like you’ll bring down the wrath of Yevon if he doesn’t get the temperature right,” she murmurs quietly, making a point to keep her voice down.

An urge grabs him – he’s felt it before, around her. “Astutely guessed. So you must inform me if it is not,” he says, and finds her exasperated laugh an unexpectedly lovely sound.

“I’ll enjoy it even if it scalds me,” she promises, her expression suddenly challenging. Then she’s walking past him towards where the innkeeper waits, sporting a nervous smile, and Solas has to concentrate to hold back his own.

When the rest of her guardians have settled in for the night, he sends his retainers back to Val Royeaux. And there, at least, he finds opposition, and there will likely be a letter in his hands in not too long, from Grand Maester Justinia, inquiring about the nature of his intentions. He doesn’t doubt she will accept the decision, but whatever his explanation, it will likely be the official statement. He will have to make it worthwhile.

But all in due time, he decides, as he makes to retire for the night, turning over the memory of how her smile had greeted him at supper, cheeks flushed from her bath and her eyes twinkling with the joke privy only to the two of them.

There are other things to be dealt with, first.

* * *

 

**iv.**

A Summoner’s pilgrimage is no simple matter, and there’s more to fear on the road than just Sin, as they travel across Thedas between temples so Ellana might pray to the fayth.

Her guardians make a good team, keeping fiends away from their Summoner, but though Ellana’s magic is by no means weak, Solas doubts she’d survive long on her own. And so he takes it upon himself to teach her, spells of fire and lightning, though it will take more than that to defeat Sin.

He’s entertaining the thought of how he might otherwise prepare her when, crossing the Bannorn on their way to Denerim, they come across an unsent.

The church would have them be little more than fiends, abominations that should not rightly exist, but it’s not uncommon to find some resilient soul, clinging to a life long lost. And this one does so with iron control, he can tell that much from the way she holds herself, certain in her steps and her existence, and he doesn’t doubt for a second it’s the reason she’s still around.

“Summoner Vivienne,” she greets, with a curt nod. “Or Madame de Fer, if you wish.” The sleek cut of her silver-white bodice and robes seems more fitting a woman of noble standing than a Summoner, and though there are no guardians accompanying her, the others don’t seem to find the sight at all suspicious – Iron Bull lets out an impressed whistle, and Ellana’s eyes have widened with awe. Only Cassandra appears to find something amiss, but whatever her thoughts, she appears intent on keeping them to herself. Although Solas spies the hand that rests, casually against her hip near the hilt of her blade, fingers twitching when Vivienne issues her challenge.

“You want to fight me?” Ellana asks, surprised.

“Only to test your merit, dear,” Vivienne says. “It’s a long way yet, to Arlathan.”

Chancing a glance over her shoulder, Solas is surprised to find Ellana’s eyes searching out his, as though to ask for advice, and it’s clear that she’s picked up on the fact that not all is how it appears. He finds himself curious to see how long it will take her to make the connection.

“It could not hurt to test yourself against another Summoner,” he says, gaze shifting to Vivienne, and by the smile that curves along her mouth, she’s well aware that he’s figured it out.

“Alright,” Ellana says then, straightening her spine a little, unconsciously mimicking the graceful posture of her opponent. “I accept your challenge, Summoner Vivienne.”

They give them a wide berth, and Solas finds his interest kindling, observing their battle. He’s seen Ellana perform a summoning before – a Summoner himself, the practice is as familiar as breathing, but each Summoner approaches it differently, and she’s no exception. And though it becomes clear within moments that she is grossly outmatched, Vivienne’s aeons vastly more powerful, Ellana boasts a sturdier bond with hers, visible in the earnest nature of her gratitude, and the tender touches offered.

She loses – it’s of no surprise to anyone, and she tries to bear her loss with grace, although Solas spies the slightly indignant purse of her lips, and has to hold back a smile.

“You have a long way to go,” Vivienne announces, though not unkindly.

Sheathing her staff, Ellana huffs a mirthless breath. “And you’re miles ahead of me. You’re more likely to reach Arlathan before me at this rate.”

She hides her sorrow well, Solas decides, watching Vivienne’s face for any sign that she’ll let her secret slip, but finds nothing but a slight softening of her eyes.

“I am in no hurry. And fear not, darling,” she says, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, a predatory grace to the angle of her chin, but there is a kindness there – a compassion rarely found in the unsent, a too-living feeling for the dead to hold on to. But this one has, and when she bows her head slightly, Solas allows his shoulders to relax.

“I will teach you.”

* * *

 

**v.**

It doesn’t take long for him to deduce that Ellana’s other guardians have reservations to his joining, but they are polite enough to keep from speaking them out loud.

Well. Most of them are.

“Solas,” Sera says, stepping smoothly up beside him. They’ve been walking all day, and the past hour has been marked by the group’s collective exhaustion, their breaths heavy with fatigue, and steps that are beginning to drag along the ground. It won’t be long before they make camp for the night, he suspects, stealing a glance towards Ellana, and the tell-tale limp of aching feet that marks her gait.

“Something on your mind, Sera?”

“Why are you here?”

It’s as direct as a question gets, and he offers her a sidelong look, not surprised in the least to find her expression openly challenging. The others have taken his unconventional offer in stride, deferring to their Summoner’s judgement, although he won’t fool himself thinking they’ve all blindly accepted it.

“Is a desire to stop Sin not enough?”

She snorts. “You expect me to believe that’s why you’re really here?”

He smiles. “No.” And oh, it’s dangerous, rewarding her shrewdness with the truth, although he doubts she’d respond well to lies. But there’s something about her that sparks something in him – memories of a youth he rarely ever thinks about these days, and a sharp and clever humour that has dulled with age, but that he feels resurfacing in her presence. The desire to accept the challenges she brandishes so brazenly.

She hums then – a short sound of understanding. “You sweet on her, then?”

It’s not what he expects, and it shows – that much is clear from the way her grin stretches, toothy and fierce. “Hah! Knew it.”

“I–”

“Oh, save it.” She waves him off, picking up her pace a bit, a slight skip in her step. “Still a skeevy bastard, Maester-this, Maester-that. Doesn’t mean I don’t want her happy.” She tosses a warning look over her shoulder. “Get up under her skirts all you like, but you hurt her, I’ll put an arrow ‘tween your eyes.”

Then she’s off, sight set on Blackwall, walking with Ellana a few paces ahead. Solas watches them – sees their animated conversation, and catches the vestiges of Blackwall’s booming laughter, drifting back. But no head turns towards him, and so it’s safe to guess that Sera has kept her deductions to herself.

His eyes drift to Ellana then, watching the gentle bounce of her hair, russet curls dusted with the gold of the sinking sun, and the brief lift to the corner of her mouth before she turns her head back.

And for all that it goes directly against his better judgement, there’s no denying the small leap his heart had made at Sera’s suggestion.

_Sweet on her, then?_

* * *

 

**vi.**

As it turns out, Sera is not the only one to voice her suspicions – only the first.

Out of all of Ellana’s guardians, Iron Bull is the one Solas gets along with best. It comes as a surprise – upon their first meeting, he’d pegged him little more than a brute, but a quick conversation had revealed a fiercely calculating mind, and an unexpected sense of camaraderie that had prompted him to seek out his counsel on several occasions. Though a Qunari outcast, Iron Bull’s knowledge of his people is extensive, and Solas listens attentively, pleased to find a source more reliable than outdated temple manuscripts from two ages past. And when not discussing the Qun or strategies of war, they play chess to pass the time, no board and no pieces between them, but he welcomes the challenge with a fierceness he hasn’t felt in well over a decade, thrilled to have found an opponent of such merit.

“So,” Iron Bull says then, one evening while they’re scouting the perimeter. And when it’s clear he’s not about to make a move, Solas drags his mind away from his own strategy, just in time to hear him add, “Boss seems to have taken a liking to you.”

“I find it difficult to imagine her actively disliking someone,” Solas retorts smoothly – too smoothly, by Iron Bull’s snort.

“Nice save.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’ve noticed, right?”

He pauses now; considers the query, not spoken like a threat, but there’s a hint of a warning there, easy to spot if you know where to look. “I have gathered there is a certain degree of interest on her part.”

“Her part. Right.” Iron Bull laughs then, and the tension snaps like a tether cut, but, “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says. “Although – journey like this, couldn’t hurt to enjoy the time you’ve got left. Boss could do with letting down her hair. Metaphorically speaking.”

Solas watches him warily now, attempting to follow the path of his thoughts, and uncertain as to whether or not he’s been given a blessing or another warning.

But, “Pawn to B5,” Iron Bull says then, and there’s an unspoken agreement that the conversation is over, although Solas can’t decide why it still feels like it matters, knowing the difference.

When they return, Ellana has already retired, curled up on her bedroll, but by her breathing pattern she’s not nearly as asleep as she’s pretending to be.

He wonders why, but then, offering a glance to those seated around the fire – Cassandra studiously avoiding all eye contact and Varric pretending to be engrossed in his book – he finds his answer in the silence that pools, heavy not with suspicion, but with guilt.

* * *

 

**vii.**

He resolves – with the memory of their lingering stares, and the terse, awkward silence – to make an effort to integrate himself better among Ellana’s other guardians.

“This is not your first pilgrimage, Varric?”

From across the fire, the dwarf glances up from his notebook, the tip of his quill pausing on the page, making the ink blot. “Third one, actually. What, you want a story?”

Solas smiles. “I have only heard the legends. I was hoping you might offer something a little more candid.”

Varric looks pleased quite despite himself. “You don’t think those legends are candid enough?”

“I would take you on your word, but there are...certain things that even I have trouble believing.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific – although, Hawke did get into a lot more trouble than Bianca, so the really crazy shit is probably her doing.”

“Ah, yes,” Solas says. “The Lady Davri.”

Varric nods, before an old shadow settles over his eyes. “Bianca was clever – too clever to be a Summoner, but once she got her mind set on something, there was no changing it.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Really thought she’d make it further than she did.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” And he doesn’t have to feign it this time, he finds, and it’s not without a small flicker of surprise.

“Yeah,” Varric sighs. “Got longer the second time, with Hawke – all the way to the Hundred Pillars. Thought that, _shit_ , we might actually do this. But then, Hawke had a way of making people feel like that.” He shakes his head, but then a smile quirks, stretching into genuine humour at whatever thought Solas sees passing behind his eyes. And then he’s telling the story of Hawke, setting out from Kirkwall, a Summoner who’d risen from the city’s underbelly to its biggest pride. He tells of a perpetually broken nose, and knuckles bloodied – “Dimples waves her staff around all elegantly, right? Well, Hawke used hers like a bloody halberd. No finesse.” – until Solas loses himself to the stories, strangely enraptured by the stubbornness that had driven both of Varric’s Summoners to challenge Sin.

He tells him as much. “It sounds like they were remarkable women.”

The dwarf looks at him – really _looks_ at him, as though for the very first time. Then, "You know, you're not too bad, Chuckles.”

The smile comes with surprisingly little effort. “A nickname at long last? Does this mean I am properly initiated as a guardian?”

Varric snorts. “Dimples did that when she brought you along. And you always had the nickname – this just means I’ve got no more qualms about saying it to your face. Although you might want to avoid telling the Seeker that, or she’ll accuse me of blasphemy.” But he’s grinning, and there’s no ill intent behind the remark. And some of his earlier suspicion seems to have lifted from his eyes, curving at the corners now with something that might even be trust.

There’s a clench of something behind his ribcage. He thinks it might be regret, but keeps his expression from showing it. And anyway, he isn’t given much time to consider the feeling, before Varric is speaking again,

“So, you want to hear the story about the time Hawke hijacked an airship and nearly crashed it into the Kirkwall temple?”

And for all his regrets, a soft chuckle escapes him. “By all means.”

* * *

**viii.**

The night by the spring changes things.

The memories stay with him, from the Crestwood and across the Frostback Mountains, sitting at the back of his mind, always ready to leap forward when he’s given a moment to himself – the feel of her skin, and his hands buried in her hair. The way she’d yielded and claimed him all at once, a softness to her surrender but an insistence in the grip of her fingers that he still feels, like marks etched into his skin.

If the others notice his distraction, they’re wise not to bring it up, although he suspects by Varric’s searching looks that the dwarf, at least, is well aware of what has transpired between him and Ellana. And Solas wouldn’t put it past the others to have made a similar connection.

They’re making their way up the mountain pass, to the old temple that sits in the cradle of the sky. _Tarasyl’an Te’las –_ Skyhold, in the common tongue, abandoned for a good two decades, and no longer part of a Summoner’s pilgrimage. But the fayth that resides there is a powerful one; a power that could greatly benefit them, and when he’d suggested it to Ellana, she’d been keen to try, although it would mean crossing the mountains instead of taking the safer route around it, to get to Orlais.

The sky above is clear when they spot the temple, nestled amidst the mountains. And their awe is palpable – Varric’s bark of laughter sounds nearly impressed, and he catches Cassandra’s soft murmur just below her breath, dusted white with frost. And it is a magnificent sight, although it’s nothing compared to what it once was, banners over the battlements, and the courtyard filled with a hundred lights, a splendour unrivalled in all of Thedas.

He should know. It had been his temple, after all.

And he knows these mountains, which is why he should have foreseen that their trek up the pass would not be an easy one, and he’s not surprised when they’re derailed halfway by a blizzard that forces them into the nearest possible shelter – a cave that offers very little by way of actual cover, other than respite from the snow.

The cold cuts like a knife through the air, and they try to keep a fire going – the warriors fare better than the rest, heavily built and with their thick coats and armour, but Ellana reacts poorly to the cold, raised in warmer climates, and Solas is not surprised to find outright worry coiling, deep in his gut.

She’s summoned Ifrit, and the beast lies curled at her back, half-wrapped around her and growling softly at those who approach. Varric keeps a careful distance with a mutter of ‘not even going to tell you what I saw Hawke achieve with that thing’, and Cassandra huddles with Iron Bull close to the fire. Only Sera seems to pay no mind to the hulking creature, having settled on the other side, shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat and gone to sleep.

Solas approaches warily, but Ifrit doesn’t lift his head. Strange creatures, the aeons – the same fayth, but their loyalties different to each Summoner. Vivienne’s tutelage had greatly improved Ellana’s skill, but she still has her favourites; the quick-tempered beast at her back, and Valefor, bright-winged and clever. Always her first to call.

_She’s cold_ , he hears then – at once a young boy’s high-pitched tremble, and something far, far older.

_I know_ , Solas says, and is about to continue when there’s a soft tap on his shoulder.

“See that she stays warm,” Blackwall says as he walks past, headed for the others by the fire. “Reckon it might let you near, being a Summoner.”

And when he looks at Ifrit next, it’s to find an invitation offered – a great paw lifted in a show of wary acceptance, and Solas doesn’t dawdle with indecision.

Ellana is stiff with cold when he comes to settle beside her, and there’s something oddly gratifying about the small sigh that slips from her lips when he pulls her close.

“T-this reminds me why I’m not too fond of snow,” she croaks, cracking a smile. There’s a blue tinge to her lips, sore from the cold. “Should h-have remembered sooner.” She tries for a laugh, but instead it escapes as a racking cough.

Guilt seizes him – a sudden, vicious feeling. Worse even, than what he’d experienced that night by the spring, feeling her trust like a physical thing in the wake of her confession, well aware that he’s hiding something, but willing to let him close anyway. And keeping secrets is one thing, but endangering her life for the sake of a single aeon, simply for its power?

Or is he subconsciously hoping it will delay their journey long enough, to give someone else a chance to challenge Sin?

“W-what kind of fayth is it, the one at Skyhold?” she asks then, pressing herself closer, and with an ease that surprises him. He doesn’t know why it should, but – this is a different kind of intimacy. Gentler, and somehow all the more intimate for it.

“She is called Mythal,” Solas says then, aware that he hasn’t spoken for some time. “You will not find a spirit of her like in all of Thedas.”

Ellana hums, visibly pleased at the prospect, and unaware of the words that sit on the tip of his tongue – _And yet I have witnessed yours, and now I no longer know which is the stronger._

“You’ve been here before, then?”

He nods, nose pressing against the fall of her hair. “I made the journey once, when there were still servants at the temple.” When he would walk the halls and the battlements, and spend his days with his frescoes and the peace of his mind. Before Sin had become the focal point of his existence, and his duty a single-minded thing.

Before _she_ had voiced her concerns, and he had brought the mountain down atop her temple, an act of desecration so profound it’s a small wonder she still heeds his call.

But then, she’d always had immeasurable patience for his youthful temper.

“It was different then, when Summoners still visited. The mountains would test their strength, but even if they were to survive the pass, Mythal would not always deem them worthy.”

A soft laugh, tinged with sleep. She settles further against him; tucks her head beneath his chin, and something constricts in his chest. “Tell me about her?”

Ifrit rumbles, and all-too knowing laugh, and _watch your tongue – we’ve still got the rest of the pass to cross._

But Solas knows she would not mind his words, like he knows already now, by the trickle of intrigue somewhere within him that’s not his, that Mythal would accept Ellana’s prayer. Kindred spirits are drawn together, and there are few he knows as well as Mythal’s.

Except, perhaps, the one that burns so brightly, in the small shape curled against him now.

* * *

 

**ix.**

He hears her at the back of his mind as they walk, Skyhold behind them now and the sky once again a seamless blue, and only one ridge of white-capped mountaintops standing between them and Orlais.

_Quite the detour, all the way up here to see an old woman._

Her voice is a curious drawl that tells him she knows more than she lets on, but then, she was always one for riddles and games.

_Your strength will aid her_ , he thinks. _Necessity outweighed the risk._

But despite his words, he knows what her response will be, and is not surprised when he hears it – a burst of laughter from the depths of his mind; a familiar, belly-deep cackle. _Oh, old friend._

_I know you better than that._

* * *

 

**x.**

The next temple on their itinerary is the grand cathedral in Val Royeaux, the noise and bustle a strangely welcome thing, after the silence that has marked their long trek across the Highlands, giving him entirely too much time with his own thoughts.

Their arrival in the city causes something of a small uproar, and it’s clear that rumours have begun to circulate, as to his reasons for becoming Ellana’s guardian. He hears the whispers, the murmured prayers, not merely for her success but for _theirs_ , Summoner Ellana and Maester Solas. And he hears the names that accompanies their own  _– Ameridan and Telana, husband and wife. Defeated Sin together, and it’s like a fairy tale, isn’t it?_

Ellana is gracious in her acceptance of their good wishes, and he knows by the way she can’t quite meet his eyes that she hears the same murmurs; sees the same hope in their expectant faces, that they’re witnessing a romance for the ages. A bond strong enough to withstand Sin’s reign of terror.

And it’s not a bad development – frankly, it’s more than he could have hoped for. For his plan to succeed, she’d need a reason to choose him. A sense of strong companionship had been his first thought, but observing her reactions as their journey progressed – the tuck of her hair behind her ear and the way she’d duck her head to hide her smiles, and now, the blush that clings to her cheeks, telling him he’s not the only one still thinking about that night by the spring...

There’s no denying the depth of her affections. And though not necessarily deeper than her love for her other guardians, her feelings for him are markedly different.

No. Definitely not a bad development. The problem, Solas finds, is his own feelings.

He finds himself drawn to her laughter – expecting it, and pleased when he’s rewarded with the sound of it, a spectrum of mirth, from gently trilling to belly-deep and loud. And he finds himself thinking of ways to lure it from her lips – roots through an old heart for the humour that makes it bubble from her chest.

_Unwise_ , he thinks, entertaining such thoughts. It will certainly complicate things, but he finds he can’t help the desire that kindles, to see her smile – an urge that grows stronger with every step of their journey, and the weight carried on her brow, growing heavier with each day.

He tries not to think about it, what it means – what it will mean, when the time comes for his plan to be put into motion. He thinks of the people of Thedas, walking in constant fear, every day marked by it – fear of Sin, fear of death, their shoulders weighed down and their hearts heavier still. No life worth living, this sleepwalking existence. Better to be liberated; to know the freedom that exists beyond life, in death.

But grasping for his conviction now, he finds it faltering – remembers instead the way her face will light up at the smallest of joys, like the tip of yellow feathers as a wild chocobo disappears between the trees. And he remembers her world-weary eyes, still growing round with wonder at the splendour of Thedas’ grandest cities; the bustling Denerim market and the towering cathedral of Val Royeaux.

( _the way she’d gasped her pleasure into the dip of his throat, and how she’d felt against him, warm and alive; eager in her touches and her reactions loud and honest_ )

He tries not to think about it, but finds it difficult – more than ever, in those moments when he can so keenly feel her absence.

They’re waiting in the antechamber while she prays to the fayth, a rare quiet between them that seems to be reserved for the temples alone, and even Sera is silent, whittling an arrow by the foot of one of the statues, not even humming under her breath. It’s been well over a day since Ellana entered the Chamber of the Fayth, one of the longest waits they’ve endured so far on their journey, although he knows her own trial is twice as difficult.

Footsteps in the outer hall then, and – “This is quite the welcoming party,” a voice announces cheerfully, and Solas looks up to find a man sauntering in, or – _strutting_ would perhaps be a better word for it, he thinks.

He comes to a stop in the arching doorway, arms crossed over his chest. In peacock-blue robes rimmed with gold, he cuts a striking image, although Solas suspects the effect would have been greater, if his smile had not been quite so amicable.

“Or – are you not here for me?” He laughs, his trimmed moustache lifting with the gesture, and, “Dorian Pavus,” he introduces, before any of them has the chance to so much as interject. “That is, _Summoner_ Pavus, just arrived from the temple of Minrathous.”

“A Vint, huh?” Iron Bull asks from where he’s leaning against one of the pillars. “Didn’t think you guys did the Summoner gig. Too much personal sacrifice and all that.”

“Stranger things have been known to happen,” Blackwall remarks. “Can’t think of a single one right now, though.”

The twitch of Dorian’s mouth speaks of a rebuttal coming, but before he can respond, there are more footsteps from the hall – hurried, this time, and, “Dorian, you can’t go inside yet, they said Lady Lavellan was still– and you’re already here,” the young man stepping through the doorway sighs.

Dorian only grins, seemingly unmindful of his companion’s exasperation. “Ah – there you are. Everyone, this is Felix. My guardian,” he introduces smoothly.

In a greeting not nearly as flamboyant as his Summoner’s, Felix merely nods. “I am honoured to meet Lady Ellana’s esteemed guardians.”

Varric snorts. “Esteemed? That’s one I haven’t heard before.”

“At least this one is polite,” Cassandra murmurs under her breath.

Dorian opens his mouth, likely to object again, when the tell-tale rumble of the Chamber of the Fayth opening interrupts whatever he’d been about to say, and Solas turns towards the doorway to see Ellana stepping beyond the translucent veil.

She stumbles slightly on her way out, and he reaches towards her without thinking, catching her before she hits the floor. She sinks against him with a sigh he feels, her chest expanding beneath his palm, pressed to her back. And with her brow resting against his chest, her curls brushing his chin, it’s suddenly a terribly intimate, _public_ embrace, although she seems too tired to care.

There’s ample room for mockery – a lesser man might have grabbed the chance, Solas thinks, but Dorian only grins. “And there she is, right on time. See, Felix? No need for us to dawdle in the foyer.”

Lifting her head with some difficulty, Ellana blinks at the newcomers, before she looks to Solas for confirmation, but he can only shake his head – no introduction seems necessary with the picture the two of them make, Dorian in his expensive robes, and Felix with his eyes on the ceiling, as though praying to Yevon for strength.

Dorian steps towards them then, as though headed for the chamber, and Solas is surprised to find him extending his hand to Ellana.

She considers it a moment, before she hesitantly accepts, and Solas steps out of the way as Dorian helps her smoothly to her feet. “I’d love to stay and chat – let’s have a glass, if our paths should cross again. Alas, time is rather of the essence at the moment. Sin still on the loose and all.”

“Ah – yeah,” she says, seeming to be caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant intrigue. “We should…do that.”

Visibly pleased with the acceptance of his offer, Dorian breezes past them, robes flaring and with a swagger in his step that makes Varric’s look half-hearted.

“Oh – and may the best Summoner win,” he adds, throwing the words over his shoulder with a grin. By the door, his guardian only shakes his head, the gesture marked by fond exasperation.

But Solas is surprised to see that, despite the fatigue marring her features, a smiles breaks through her exhaustion, and – “I won’t make it easy,” Ellana says, lifting her chin slightly.

And Dorian’s burst of laughter is such a genuine thing, it’s startling in the once-quiet antechamber, a sound so full of life it’s hard not to notice how it echoes, long after the door slides shut behind him.

* * *

 

**xi.**

He has to tell her.

It’s a truth that is slow in settling, but once it takes hold, proves unable to shake. The fact that he has changed his mind matters little, although he has entertained the thought of letting his plans die with him, but–

But he remembers the look in her eyes, watching his expression for any hints of what he’s hiding – a secret she could never hope to guess, something too terrible to comprehend, least of all for someone like her, who has laid down her life for Thedas with such an honest hope to save it.

And he can’t keep deceiving her – for all his lies and all his plots, the thought of hiding the truth from her now, after everything, has become unbearable.

They’re making their way across the Silent Plains, the peaks of the Hundred Pillars rising into the sky far in the distance, beyond which the ruins of Arlathan lie. They’re all feeling it, the end of the pilgrimage approaching, a mixture of hope and dread permeating the air. Varric is not near as talkative – Sera, too, is oddly silent. Cassandra rises long before the sun now to pray, and Blackwall’s expression seems carved from stone. Only Iron Bull walks with a straight back, but Solas suspects it is a front for Ellana’s benefit, more than anything else.

They all feel it, but none of them are prepared for what awaits them – the choice that will meet Ellana in Arlathan.

And she would choose him. There’s no doubt in his mind about that, but he feels no satisfaction at the thought now; can’t find so much as a shred of his old conviction, that the path he’d set out on was the right one. Now all he feels is uncertainty – doubt, about his plans, and about Sin’s true nature. There’s only one thing he knows with absolute surety. The thought of losing her…

There’s no avoiding it any longer. Not her feelings, or his own. But most of all, there’s no denying his change of heart.

He only hopes she can find it in her own to forgive him.

* * *

 

**xii.**

The echoes of her sobs chase after him down the mountain path, and he feels each and every one of them like a blow, but he doesn’t turn back – every time the urge resurfaces he reminds himself of how she’d looked at him, there on the cliff, her eyes wide, not with innocence now but a hurt so vivid it had driven all his words from his mind.

He stops only when he can no longer hear her cries, but the memory of them clings, still, an echo in their own right. The cold mountain air whips his hair around his face, and he feels starved of breath, kneeling there in the dirt. A different end than he’d imagined, but the only regret he feels now is for his own, foolish idealism – the twisted compulsion that had driven him to deceive them all, those who had called themselves his friends, and her, who had been so much more.

He forces himself to keep moving – walks, aimlessly at first but then with more purpose, although he has no plan in mind now, for what to do once he reaches the foot of the mountain. There’s nothing he can do. What he had told her had been the truth – there is no stopping Sin, only postponing the inevitable. The spiral of death will prevail, even if she should succeed.

The thought makes him pause, and he knows she would – if anyone could, it would be her. And she would try, even knowing the truth. She would try, and she would die there, at the hands of the one she’d chosen. Her victory would herald a new Calm, and Thedas would rejoice. And the last he’d know of her would be the betrayal etched on her face, and the knowledge of how he’d left her to face Sin without him.

He’s turning around before he’s reached the drawbridge spanning the gaping chasm that marks the very beginning of the pass, a new desperation in his step now, urging him into a run. There might not be time to stop her, but perhaps there might be just enough make a difference.

However minuscule.

* * *

 

**xiii.**

In the end, her choice was Iron Bull.

Part of him is not surprised, when the news are delivered – part of him even feels the keen ache of loss (the loss of a friend, and how long since he last called someone by that term?). And he would have marvelled at just how great her influence has been, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he realized the truth too late.

“How long since they departed?”

Ameridan regards him coolly from across the ruined antechamber, and – something else resides in his eyes, a knowledge that makes the hairs rise at the back of Solas’ neck. “You will not stop her, you know,” he says. “Summoners who make it this far are always determined, but those driven by loss are of a different sort.”

Solas ignores the implication – that her loss was somehow greater than just that her old friend. “How long?”

Ameridan is silent, and for a moment Solas wonders if he will answer at all. But then, “A day’s journey to the Drylands. But you won’t make it in time.”

He doesn’t offer his thanks – there’s no reason to bless the dead with gratitude.

“There is no stopping it,” Ameridan calls after him, as Solas sets off down the length of the antechamber. “Sin is eternal. Acceptance is the only salvation.”

And once again, he’s surprised at the new conviction that flares to life in his chest – a sudden inability to accept the callous words as they’re put before him. Words that were once his own.

“I know,” Solas says, evenly. “But I should like to be proven wrong, one day.”

Then he’s off at a run, Valefor’s name already on his tongue before he’s made it beyond the grand chamber’s doors.

Because if he’s to have any chance at reaching her in time, he’ll need more than his own two legs.

* * *

 

**xiv.**

He finds Sera first, bow still gripped between her fingers. Blackwall lies crumbled not far off, and Cassandra, face serene in death and raised to the blood-red skies, her shield cracked in half. Varric seemed to have made it the farthest before he’d fallen, and Solas spots Bianca before he sees the dwarf, resting on his side, eerily still.

But Ellana is still standing when he finds her, and the relief he feels is like nothing he’s ever known. And though he’d once imagined death to be the final release from life’s burdens, he feels nothing now but a desire to live – to keep her with him, just a little longer.

He holds her as the last of her strength leaves her – watches as the final aeon cracks the ground in half, to pull itself from its depths, a truly monstrous creature, but there is a familiarity there that strikes like a blow – only one seeing eye, and a sharp, wicked grin.

“Stay?” she asks him, her voice smaller than he’s ever heard it, and there’s a tenderness in her expression that steals his words.

A fond guffaw somewhere at the back of his mind, and – _It would seem_   _you’ve finally found a reason to, old friend,_ Mythal trills. _A pity it should be now, so close to the end you once craved._

Then, a thoughtful hum follows.  _Although_   _I suppose_   _the lad did ask nicely,_ she remarks quietly, cryptically, but Solas is too distracted to bother with deriving any sense from her riddles now.

He looks at Ellana instead, and finds her smiling – freckles dulled by dirt and dust and her eyes blank with tears, but no betrayal marring her features now. And his voice is little more than a rasp when he gives her the promise he should have made, a long time ago, no uncertainty as to his choice now, and no regret when he makes it, his grip tightening around her as he feels the ground give way beneath them. And it’s not the end he’d imagined, but it’s the one he’ll take, if it means he’ll have her.

Even if it’s only to her last breath.

* * *

 

**xv.**

They’re in Denerim when the news reach them, watching the celebration break out in the streets – people coming out of their homes, crowding the path to the temple. Songs of victory, and _praise be to Yevon, Sin is dead!_

“She did it,” Felix observes, quietly from beside him.

“A worthy victor,” Dorian murmurs, shoulders sagging slightly at the thought – not defeat but something else; the particular loss felt so keenly, by those who know well the sacrifice required, for the rest of Thedas to sleep soundly in their beds.

“How long do you think this one will last?”

He’s about to answer when there’s a small tug at his robes, and he glances down to find a young girl, barely taller than his knee, pointed ears poking out from her mop of red curls.

For a moment, the similarity makes him pause, but, “You’re a Summoner,” she says, eyes wide. No freckles on her face, but then there’s hardly any sun in the south.

Smile stretching past his melancholy, Dorian watches her peer up at him. “That’s right.”

“Did you defeat Sin?”

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid someone beat me to it. It’s a close race, you see.”

She seems to ponder that for a moment. “Mamae says Sin is gonna come back.”

Something clenches within his chest, but he’s quick to mask it with a smile. “It might not.”

A small mouth purses, before a gap-toothed grin stretches. “Well. If it does, I’m gonna defeat it! So it doesn’t come back, ever.”

Felix lets slip a chuckle. “A great ambition, that.”

“Well,” Dorian says, kneeling down to the girl’s level, for once finding himself not giving a fine damn about the mud. “The best Summoners are the ambitious ones.”

She grins at that, and looks like she might say something else when a voice calling from across the street captures her attention, and with a small bow – and a child’s cheerful and careless attempt at Yevon’s prayer, unburdened by religious expectations – she takes off running, darting through the crowd on quick feet to where her mother waits.

“It’s some world, isn’t it? Encouraging kids to sacrifice themselves for the good of everyone,” Felix sighs.

Rising to his feet, Dorian watches the head of wild curls, a small beacon of colour amidst the dreary brown and grey that seems to be the only two alternatives within Fereldan fashion. “Yes,” he agrees. “Someone ought to change that.”

Felix raises a brow. “You think it’s possible?”

Lifting his eyes to the sky, he traces the colours – a lively blend of reds and oranges. A fitting homage, he thinks, remembering those russet curls. That slightly raised chin, and _I won’t make it easy._

“I think it’s about time someone tried.”

* * *

 

**xvi.**

Warmed by the sun’s glare, the sand is almost too hot beneath his feet, bare now and – _what happened to his shoes?_ But amidst the chaotic tumult of his confusion, concern about his attire is quickly pushed down his list of immediate concerns.

The others are there with him, just as confused – Varric continues to check himself for wounds, and Cassandra appears to be having a crisis of faith, staring at the sprawling city of Arlathan in all its unblemished glory, mouth agape. He hears Sera and Blackwall talking – about the battle, about Sin, questions and oaths stumbling over each other, along with half-hysteric, disbelieving laughter, and Blackwall’s repeated muttering of _‘Yevon’s balls’._

Only Iron Bull is missing, and – there’s an inkling of a thought as to the reason why, but he feels afraid to entertain it; afraid that if he examines the truth too closely, it will shatter whatever illusion has trapped them here, in a place that should not rightly exist, and when _they_ should not rightly exist.

But one thought plagues him more than any other – more, even, than Iron Bull’s absence, the city just beyond the bay, and the fact that he should be dead.

There is no sign of Ellana.

A shadow at the corner of his eye then – the brim of a familiar hat, and he turns to find Cole considering the horizon. Behind him, Sera and Blackwall fall suddenly silent, proving that, at the very least, he’s not the only one seeing things.

“Cole?” Solas asks, for lack of anything more eloquent.

The boy tilts his head. “Hello.”

“Who’s the kid?” Varric asks.

“One of the fayth,” Solas explains. Aside from Mythal, the one he’d felt the strongest connection to. He wonders if that has anything to do with his presence, or the fact that they all appear to be alive. “He might know what has happened.”

“Do you?” Cassandra asks, directing the question at Cole. “Do you know where we are? And Ellana, is she–”

Gaze going suddenly unfocused, Cole seems to be looking at nothing. “Water, everywhere. Yevon, why is it so dark? Pyreflies at the corner of my eye, and they’re the ones dancing now. Is this how Summoners die?”

A thought, the very smallest of hunches, and his heart seizes – _hope_ , he realizes, a moment before Cole lifts his eyes, hat slipping back to sit askew on his head. “Turn around,” he says.

And though part of him already knows what to expect, it doesn’t prepare him for the sight of her, wading through the water towards him, skirt clinging to her legs and her curls a dripping mess about her face, and – “ _Shit_ ,” he hears Varric’s soft exclamation, but it sounds more like laughter than a curse.

And then – his name, tumbling off her tongue, and it’s like a _pull,_ dragging him towards her. A single, uneven step because _he still can’t be sure–_

Then she’s running towards him, unmindful of her dripping clothes as she physically launches herself down the length of the beach, a stumbling pace, frantic with desperation and a _joy_ that collides with him with even more force than the full weight of her – the impact knocking the air clean from his lungs, but he has no mind to think about the pain.

She’s soaked – he feels it seeping into his clothes, and he _feels_ , though he still can’t wrap his mind around how, let alone the truth of her presence, and, “Is this real?” he’s asking her, touching hesitant fingertips to her shoulder, the tip of her ear. He threads shaking fingers though her curls, strands wet and clinging to his skin, but he still can’t tell if he’s dreaming; if she’s real or not ( _if he is),_ and if this is life beyond death or something else entirely.

Ellana makes a noise – a thick, strangled sound that’s lost against his throat, and, “Does it matter?” she counters, and it’s hard to tell if she’s laughing or sobbing, but the furious grip of her fingers around the back of his neck leaves no doubt in his mind as to her relief. And she’s in his arms, solid and breathing and clutching at him with the very same strength he’d felt trickle out of her. And there’s no ravaged battlefield now, no final aeon and no Sin, and he feels her heaving breaths; the frantic, bird’s wing beat of her living heart.

“No,” Solas says then, thumb sketching across her cheek. And uncaring of whether or not she’s real, pulls her to him –

and kisses her as though she is.


End file.
